Sunday Mornings
by Timekpr
Summary: Natasha hates, or loves, Sunday mornings. A Clint/Natasha/Steve story for all ages.


Title: Sunday Mornings

Natasha dreads Sunday mornings without a mission. As nice as it might be to lounge around in a pair of sweats and drink coffee, she knows that long before she gets to the 'carrier's off duty lounge Clint will already be in position - perched on the back of a sofa in full control of the TV remote.

_**Bowling.**_

She's heard all his explanations of why he appreciates the sport - angles and vectors, the constantly shifting balance of speed and rotation modified by surface tension. Regardless of the physics involved, its still men in ugly shirts and ridiculous shoes and about as exciting as watching paint dry. In fact, drying paint is in her experience more exciting, she did that for weeks on assignment following an art forger in France.

But its Barton, and for her partner she'll curl into the uncomfortable couch, sheltered beneath his vantage with a huge mug of revolting mess hall coffee and watch men play with brightly colored balls for hours. Its peaceful and normal in a way few things have ever been in her life and she'll never admit it to him but she needs that private space his unusual TV choice gains them trapped on a flying barracks surrounded by Agents.

The comfort of knowing that no one intrudes during their bowling marathons lulls her and its an unwelcome surprise when the cushion beside her shifts as someone sits down. Every sense suddenly on alert as adrenaline floods her system and her mind tries to process who of all the Agents on board Clint would have let get this close without a warning. Before she can even turn her head fully Natasha processes the flash of earth-tone plaid at the edge of her vision and she stands down from full awareness as Captain America settles next to her, seemingly unconcerned that he's got Hawkeye literally breathing down his neck and a startled assassin on his left.

She pins Clint with a withering glare for letting someone sneak up on her, and is rewarded with a minute shrug of one shoulder in apology. Not trusting herself to say anything just yet she acknowledges the apology with a sip of coffee and deliberately turns her eyes back to the screen. Her resolve to focus on the match doesn't last long.

A moment later she nearly jumps again when sudden twin intakes of breath come from above and next to her. Looking up, Clint's eyes are narrowed the way he always does when a shot releases badly, and at her side Rodgers leans forward as though getting closer to the TV will somehow alter a shot taking place a thousand miles away in Las Vegas.

As the ball impacts and the pins begin to settle, Rogers speaks, "Late release."

"Over rotated." Clint agrees flatly, and all hope that Rogers had joined them in some kind of misguided team bonding effort fades as she realizes he likes bowling too.

The bad shot is being replayed in slow motion now so that overpaid commentators can make the exact same observations that her teammates have already stated, for the benefit of viewers who aren't subjected to the observations of two men whose lives depend on calculating shots on a battlefield. Natasha groans softly drawing startled looks from both men.

Two pairs of eyes bore into her, and she has to resist the impulse to squirm under their gaze. Natasha shifts her hips and adjusts her body just enough to get both men into her full field of vision. Clint looks slightly amused, and Rogers - no, Steve - looks surprised.

"You don't like bowling?", Steve asks, and she can see he's about to launch into the exact same physics speech she gets from Clint every few months when she lets herself relax enough to express an opinion about Sunday television.

"Tasha prefers football." answers Clint for her, and his eyes are lit with mischief as he continues, "She likes her sports to involve men in tight pants."

Clint's statement predictably causes Steve to produce a blush of heroic proportions, she hadn't known it was even possible for someone to blush down to their wrists. She flicks one hand upward and, grasping one ankle, pulls Clint down out of his crouch, throwing herself sideways toward the center seat as he lands in the spot she just vacated. Deliberately she relaxes her back against Steve's side and extends her legs across Clint as he bursts out laughing.

She takes a long sip of her coffee before tilting her head up to check on Steve. All sign of his earlier embarrassment has vanished and he seems to be staring at her mug, of all the things he could be examining with the Black Widow nearly in his lap.

" How did you do that without spilling the coffee?" he demands, and suddenly all three of them are laughing like children, and she feels it, she knows it.

This is her team, now.


End file.
